


Gens Julia in aeternum

by thedevilchicken



Category: Rome
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken





	Gens Julia in aeternum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madamedarque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamedarque/gifts).



The day she met Mark Antony, Atia almost died.

It was all the result of an accident. A crowd by the forum, two senators walking, three off-duty soldiers of a cohors praetoria on horseback... a cart filled with marble detached from its mangy beasts of burden on the way to a sculptor, the soldier’s horses reared and Atia’s litter was overturned, spilling her onto the stone paving. Marble from the car crushed the legs of one of her bearers and had a passerby not pulled her clear of the furore, she never doubted she would have been trampled to death.

Her saviour wasn’t Antony, however. He just plucked her lost earring from the ground and came toward her, brushed back her dishevelled hair and slipped it back into place. She hadn’t even noticed it was gone. His hands lingered at her cheeks for a moment, too long to be decent, and she blushed in spite of her nature. She was married then, young but already hard and practiced, and Antony had been away at war. They’d never met before but with the warmth of his hands still present in her cheeks, she wanted him, in a very improper sense.

She hoped it wasn’t obvious. From the way he smiled before he turned to leave, it was.

She thought she already loved him by the second time they met.

There were discreet channels of inquiry opened to her by her name and her status that made it possible for her to have Antony’s career spelled out to her in detail. The details told her he was brave but not foolhardy, proud, his patriotism perhaps tempered with a healthy streak of ambition and intelligence there that she liked to imagine matched her own. She believed it, that she had finally met a man who was her equal. It barely seemed to matter that that man was not her husband.

Still, she was plainly, visibly pregnant at that second time they met, feeling far from ‘radiant’ as all present had made sure to tell her she was. Of course, the men told her out of duty and the women told her out of spite, her friends delighting in the fact that for once Atia of the Julii could not be the glowing centre of attention. She reclined at the periphery of the party there in her husband’s villa just barely outside Rome, a slave plucking grapes for her to eat, popping them deliciously in her mouth as she watched, bored though her nerves jangled faintly. She knew that Antony was present, had wheedled subtly until her husband had extended the invitation to the generals and of course, that included the well-noted Marcus Antonius. He husband never knew.

There were glimpses of him, moving amongst the other guests, talking, laughing. She’d been a fool to bring him here with her in this pathetic pregnant posture, all of her attempts at an air of recumbent decadence failing on the grounds that she was so heavily pregnant, despite the months still left to her term, and so distant from the gathering. But then Antony approached, a gilt goblet of wine in hand and a smile at his lips as his gaze drifted over her. She gave an offhand gesture to the grape-bearing slave who backed away quickly and quietly.

“You look as much a wreck as the day we met,” he told her, that smile still playing at the corners of his mouth in a perfect show of amusement.

She fairly scowled, but when he settled himself by her knees on the couch it was difficult to feign irritation. Then he took a sip from the goblet then set it aside and ran one hand over her belly, over the fine fabric of her stola.

“Your first?” he asked.

“My second. My daughter is with her nurse.”

He nodded and turned his gaze back to the party, though one hand slipped down quietly to rest at her calf, just under the stola’s hem. He said nothing else and neither did she; she could hardly bring herself to feel outrage at his boldness when boldness was exactly what she’d wanted.

Before long, he was called away; he raised his wine and toasted her health with a glint in his eye and a smile at his lips then strode back to the others as if his shift away from talk and drink hadn’t been for the cause of taking mild liberties with the host’s wife. She laughed lightly to herself and retired to her rooms soon after, her gaze falling on Antony as he lifted his glass to her. He was perfect. She was going to have him.

She had him that evening.

He came to her after dark, taking a chance though she came to know that streak was just part of who he was, a trait she admired. He came through the door of her bedroom and she almost cried out, though that righteous outrage at the intrusion to her rest died quickly when she saw his face in the moonlight from the unshuttered window. That same smile played at the corners of his mouth as he sat himself down on the edge of her bed, remained there until he leaned down to kiss her lips. She was thrilled, the illicit nature of it making her shiver against him.

He kissed her cheeks, her neck, he shoulders; he brushed back her unbound hair as he pressed his lips to the tunic over her breasts. One hand snaked beneath, brushed her calves, brushed her thighs, fingers slipping between as he tugged up his own tunic. She gasped and he chuckled lowly, right beside her.

“Second thoughts, Atia?” he murmured, lips moving against her ear as his fingers delved between her thighs, the contact against her most sensitive spot making her flush with warmth.

“Of course not,” she told him, every ounce of her noble, superior demeanour packed into those few words, as if addressing a slave and not Mark Antony, a general of Rome. He chuckled again and said nothing more, just eased her onto her side as he settled behind her. The position seemed to make it simple, alignment perfect for him to slip his hard cock straight inside her. She hadn’t realised just how ready she’d been until that moment.

It was two months after that when she finally gave birth to her son, Gaius Octavius Thurinus. She loved him, of course; after all, Atia was always, first and foremost, of the Julii. She was a Roman matron, with two children whom she loved to distraction, for whom she always knew she would do anything at all, no matter how debasing. She kept the house for her husband, loyal slaves and splendid furnishing, everything that a family could desire since though essentially plebeian, her husband had a certain wealth.

It was four years after that when she finally spoke to Antony again. She hadn’t forgotten him, nor him her; she smiled as he glimpsed her in the forum, borne on her litter, jewellery gleaming in the sun. She had missed Rome over the years in Velitrae, something about the sedate pace of life in the countryside, something about the lack of amenities and the lack of polite society that just didn’t agree with her. The children had adored it, however, and she could hardly begrudge them their happiness so early in life. But their father had died and she knew it was time to return, just as she had known that society would accept them. They were of a patrician line, she the niece of Gaius Julius Caesar, and her friends had not forgotten her.

Antony was with three men, two senators and a general still in uniform. But he glanced away, gaze caught by the glint of gold as Atia approached, and she watched him make his apologies. He stooped by the litter to wish her well; he was married now but in Rome that barely seemed to matter. She knew what would happen.

He came to her that evening. He came by the front door, bold as he’d ever been despite his marriage as he strode through the house and found here there on a couch with some needlework that had barely ever captured her attention and now so much less being back home in the heart of Rome. She set it aside and looked up at him with all the feigned disdain she could muster.

“It’s late for receiving visitors, Antony,” she told him, tone haughty to perfection. She still had other skills to hone, to re-hone now that she’d returned, but she’d always known how to put a man in his place. “People will talk.”

“Let them talk.”

She laughed. “What do you imagine will happen?” she asked, lips curling in amusement. “Did you think you would present yourself at my door and I’d throw myself at your feet?” She pulled herself up straight on the couch, practically divine in her bearing as he frowned, apparently at a loss. She’d known, she’d heard all about him before she’d taken the step to make him approach her; he was so used to getting his own way, so used to women begging, vying for his attention. She wouldn’t be the latest in that long line. She wouldn’t be discarded, discredited, shamed or otherwise humiliated in the public eye. She was of the Julii. She deserved so much more.

“Go away,” she told him, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Don’t come back until you’re willing to come on your knees.”

And she stood, and left the room.

It took every ounce of her will not to turn back, to tug at the folds of his tunic, to pull him to her like four years hadn’t intervened. But she waited. She saw him at parties, at dinners, at poetry readings, in her friends’ houses when she visited. She was civil but aloof and she could see his obstinacy slip one degree at a time, the layers of it peeled away by his frustration that he couldn’t have her. There were times, when he’d taken just a little too much wine, when the look in his eyes said exactly what he’d do to her, that the wall in the next room would be fine, all he need do was gather his tunic and enter her like he’d done before and maybe he’d be rid of this obsession. She just smiled and turned away to conversation with another man. She could almost feel the anger roll from him, hot and dark.

He caught her in a corridor one night, caught her bare arms and pushed her to the wall. The surprise never hit her face; she just gave him the most despising of looks, a full-body appraisal that was far from positive. She didn’t need to push him away after that. He let her go and she smiled as she went. She knew she was winning.

And she won. Two nights later he came to her, jaw set, furious though whether that was aimed at her or himself was entirely up for debate. He scowled and she simply raised her brows as she set aside her cup and looked at him.

“You aren’t here on your knees, Antony,” she said. She could swear she saw him grind his teeth. “Leave me alone. Don’t you enter this house again.”

He took an unsteady breath that she could hear across the room. Then he moved closer. She watched as he paused, the conflict so evident on his proud face as he slowly came down to his knees before her on the perfect tiled mosaic floor.

“Better.”

His temper obviously flared as his lips peeled back for a moment, teeth bared. He took another breath. “What more do you want from me?” he asked, the words forced between his teeth.

She shrugged lightly. Then, slowly, she spread her legs as she sat there on the couch. She gathered her stola, eased it over her knees, her thighs, bared herself to him. Apparently he understood - he shuffled closer, hands skimming her calves, her thighs, nudging her to the edge of the couch as he looked up at her, so angry and so intent. Then he dipped his head, parted her lips with the fingers of one hand and used the flat of his hot, wet tongue to swipe at that sensitive spot beneath.

She stayed very quiet, very still, schooled herself to passive observation as he slipped his fingers inside her, nibbled softly at her lips, sucked on her clitoris, teased it with the tip of his tongue. He was perfect, so skilled, everything she wanted; she let him bring her to orgasm and then she abruptly threw him out unsatisfied.

He came back the next night, then the next. She’d known he would; she knew precisely what she was doing, every step of the way. When she ignored him while they were both in public it made him crazy and she would give a blithe smile behind closed doors, unpin her hair, unpin her dress and let him touch her like he’d touch a goddess. She tied him to the bed, called him a fool as she pinched the head of his cock, made him growl in anger because he obviously knew it was true. Then she’d ride him, take him up inside her so somehow she’d still be in control. She just didn’t notice his petty rebellions against that iron rule until it was far too late.

Years on, sometimes she doubts his love for her. Sometimes she considers that her machinations may have damaged what they have but she knows they wouldn’t be here without them. He’s fought in so many wars she can barely recall the names and places, and mostly doesn’t care to; it matters most to her that he returns and returns to her. He always does. In spite of their differences, in spite of their arguments that rage for days, weeks, that hang in the air over a military campaign and leave her wondering if he’ll die not realising how desperately she loves him just because he thinks it’s all misplaced hate... in spite of all that, past ten years, twelve, thirteen, fifteen, in spite of the lovers in between, they always come back to each other.

She is Atia of the Julii, patrician, Roman matron. She is a queen amongst all women, brilliant, devious and splendid. It’s not enough. She sees him with Cleopatra, and she thinks she’d give every last piece of herself to be Mark Antony’s wife.

But she is Atia of the Julii. And she will outlast him.


End file.
